Afterwards
by ojuzu
Summary: Despite appearances, Misa is not actually stupid.


A/N: I never felt like I was smart enough to write a fic in a fandom where the characters were so brilliant. Then, out of the blue (or whatever colour you prefer) the first little scene of this oneshot came into my head. I'd always gotten the feeling I'd like Misa if she wasn't so completely stupidly obsessed with Raito, and I managed to even find one fic where she was actually vaguely intelligent.

Perhaps I shall eventually write a long-ish Death Note fic someday. When I'm feeling particularly intelligent.

Twilight disclaimer: I don't actually think Bella and Edward have no personality. I just don't like them.

* * *

A knock on her door.

As she got up to answer it, Misa went over in her head the list of things it could mean. It wasn't very long — most people she knew would have called ahead. It could be door-to-door salespeople, or a friend who had been mugged and had nowhere else to go. Or maybe one of those scary fanboys again. (Misa wasn't worried about them, though. She'd easily been able to afford self-defence and judo lessons, and had gotten some not long after meeting Raito.)

It was Matsuda, and he looked sadder and more . . . haggard than she'd ever seen him. He waved away her offer of tea.

"I . . . have some bad news for you."

And in a rush, she knew, _knew_ what it had to be. Still, she sat quietly through his jumbled and regretful explanation of the events leading to Raito's death.

When he was finished, Misa gave him a small smile filled with sadness. "Thank you . . . for coming to tell me in person."

As the door closed behind Matsuda, she walked over to her computer and turned her Beatles playlist up loud, before calmly getting herself a glass of water. Dehydration was unhealthy, after all, and she had a lot of crying to do.

* * *

Misa had always liked high places. It had been years since she'd really been able to sit up high, though, swinging her legs and reading a book or listening to music. She'd spent all her free time with Raito (plotting . . . always plotting, he never wanted to just have fun) and the investigators had always refused to allow her access to such spaces on the grounds that she might commit suicide, by her own will or otherwise.

Now, she sat on the edge of a bookstore's roof, reading a good translation of the Dunciad. The Iliad, no matter how classic it was, had been so difficult to get through, but this was an amusing and surprisingly easy read.

In the plastic bag behind her sat a copy of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight, a book which she had read once and sworn never to do so again. Bella and Edward reminded Misa of herself and Raito, only devoid of any interest and personality.

She was looking forward to burning it, so she could scatter the ashes over Raito's grave.

Misa knew he would have appreciated it.

* * *

Sitting on L's grave with her legs tucked under her, Misa talked.

"I never liked you — you knew that, of course. You refused to give me any time with Raito, always kept those _ridiculous_ handcuffs on the pair of you (honestly, how the hell did you shower) ate nothing but sugar all the damn time, and gave me absolutely nothing to do while I was locked up in your stupid hotel.

"But you know why I really hate you, L?" Misa brushed some dust off the smooth stone she was sitting on.

"Because you _died_. I know that's what Raito wanted, but maybe . . . maybe . . ."

It seemed like a long time before she whispered the words.

". . . maybe, if you hadn't, Near and Mello would have kept out of the whole thing, and all this shit wouldn't have happened."

Not long after, she rose from the sun-warmed gravestone. Amane Misa had work to do, after all, and sitting around talking at dead people didn't pay the bills.

* * *

Misa swung her legs up onto the roof, so she could lie down and peer over the edge without falling off. She sighed, dangling one arm off the roof and pretending to frame the students with her fingers. They seemed so young, emotions moved to great heights by such small things. A cheating boyfriend; good grades; a misplaced notebook. (Well, Misa supposed that last one could actually be important. But not for them.)

She almost wished herself to be like them again, agonizing over what major she would take in college and whether or not such-and-such had noticed her. Truly, though, she would not give up what she had (and did not have) now for what she could have had at their age. They were not so much younger than her in years, but the difference in experience was so great.

"Is it better to have loved and lost . . ." Amane Misa whispered to herself as she followed a laughing couple with her fingertips.

Yes, she decided. In the end, yes it was.

* * *

For Matsuda's birthday, she gave him a bilingual edition of Lord Dunsany's A Dreamer's Tales.

When he looked at her askance, she laughed low in her throat. "Raito brought out the worst in me, I think, intelligence-wise. You didn't think I was _usually_ that bad, did you?"

Snatching the book from his hand, she began to read the first tale aloud as he and the rest dug into their cake. "Toldees, Mondath, Arizim, these are the Inner Lands, the lands whose sentinels upon their borders do not behold the sea . . ."

Even after the cake was finished, no one left until she was done reading.

* * *

Misa went back to L's grave, sitting so that her long (for once), sweeping skirt flowed around her.

"You know, I didn't actually hate you that much." She smiled. "I just disliked you with the fury of a thousand flaming suns."

* * *

She walked along the streets of Tokyo, smiling secretly to herself and wondering how long she had before a shinigami killed her. Misa's natural lifespan had become longer than any human's should, and she was sure a few hundred years (or more) were worth the trouble of writing down her name.

Sitting down in a certain cafe and taking a bite of very unhealthy strawberry shortcake, she decided it didn't matter.

Her past would always haunt her — but really (cause and effect, things that come before affect what happens after) it was that way for everyone.

* * *

A/N: Someone told me once that when a shinigami dies for someone, that person gets all their time. I haven't gotten around to reading vol. 13 yet, so I'm not sure if that's accurate.

I have a lovely, lovely rebinding of the first print of A Dreamer's Tales. I'm not sure if there's an English/Japanese bilingual edition, but considering how often you see Italian/English Dante, I don't think it's terribly unlikely.

I hope Misa was fairly in character — please tell me if you think otherwise. In fact, please tell me if you think anything of this at all, even if it's just that you can't see her ever wearing a long skirt. I'm a very review-greedy author, and reviews usually equal inspiration. Or at least happiness. And sometimes discussions.


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